The Weber Literary Journal A Winter's Wind Ivan Jones The wind swept down from iced peaks, Carrying with it the frozen snow, Scraping the crusts of the hardened drifts, Flinging itself to the vale below. Howling and shrieking it swirled along, A mighty rush on a wild rampage, A long drawn swish on the seething snow, A dervish loosed in a frenzied rage, Blotting the moon with needles of ice, Filling the air with a stinging pain, Buffeting, breaking, boiling on, Scarring and marring the blanketed plain. A pause, a lull, and then on its way, Wrinkling Dame Nature's white shroud. With a final shrill whistle it surged far beyond, Unconquered, unbeaten, unbowed. Spring Over the hill and gone again; Gone again gone Where is Spring? A violet dropped from her golden hair, A tuft of green 'neath her footprint there, A puff of perfume from her hanky fair, But Spring Spring Oh, where? And then she came, we knew not when, But she made quite gay a lonely glen, She left on our tree a fenny wren, A gay little twittering Jenny wren 0 Spring. 6 The Weber Literary Journal The Poetry of Life Thelma Jones THE poetry of life is as large as the great sea bottom, as small as a grain of sand upon the sea shore. It is as sad as the far away sounding of funeral bells, as merry as chimes at Christmas time. It is found in the meek, in the lowly, the rich and the poor, the wise and the un-scholarly. It is that bit of something that makes life worth living. What would life be without poetry? The call of a nightingale when the shades of dusk begin to fall; the warble of a tiny yellow canary when the sun makes its appearance over a rolling blue sea; or a pine crested mountain, are the poetry of life. The poetry of life may be found in the poppy fields of China, in the daisy fields of England, in the flax fields of Ireland, in the snowy Alps, and [in the wheat fields of Canada. Poetry of life is a moonlit night, a stolen kiss under twinkling stars, a lover's stroll in a perfumed garden. It is in the ring of a wedding bell, the cadence of a happy voice, the strain of a violin. It is in the massive icebergs of the northland, in the tropical forests of the equator. It is in the northern lights of Norway or the exquisite sunsets of the Mediterranean. It is in the strength of a rushing river or the submissiveness of a rippling stream. Poetry of life may be found in the flames of a fireside or in a mighty conflagration, in the satisfaction of a great deed completed or a tiny deed well done. The poetry of life is in the picture of a rider at the end of his trail, of Pandora peeking into the forbidden box, of a child kneeling in prayer, or a mother clasping a babe to her breast. It is found in a poem, in a novel, in the scriptures, in a sermon, or in an oration. It is found in a person righteously angry, in a soul bowed down with sorrow or humbled with repentance. It is found in the toss of a coquettish head, in the wink of a beautiful eye, in the pout of the lips of a lively miss. Poetry of life! What is it? It is that tiny sparkle of light, that bit of animation, that something that makes life worth while. It is all that is exquisite and good, tiny as the faintest heart-throb, mighty as an angry volcano. It is the mingling of love, beauty and sorrow. 7